


We're in a Powder Keg (and Giving off Sparks)

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Established KillerWave, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy Valentine's Day!, Lingerie, Mick Rory as a writer, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction, Sexy Caitlin Snow, fluff and banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29440347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “How’s the writing coming?”“It’s not.” Mick grunts, glaring at the blank sheet of paper.  If he puts the fear of God in it, something might actually happen beyond half-assed attempts that sound wrong and read even worse out loud than in his head and deserve to be burnt to a crisp.“Sorry to hear that,” he can hear Caitlin’s steps on the floor, the heels tapping idly to match her pace; after a moment more of glaring at the page, he sighs and looks up to find her plucking the knot of her coziest bathrobe, “Maybe I can…provide some inspiration?”
Relationships: Mick Rory/Caitlin Snow
Kudos: 12





	We're in a Powder Keg (and Giving off Sparks)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, you know I can't just let the day of love slip by without some KillerWave smut. ;) No plot to see here - just two crazy kids getting some love.
> 
> Title comes from "Total Eclipse of the Heart".
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!

He’s on the tenth sheet of paper, the unlucky priors scattered across the floor in disfigured lumps, when the door opens and closes in neat procession. “How’s the writing coming?”

“It’s not.” Mick grunts, glaring at the blank sheet of paper. If he puts the fear of God in it, something might actually happen beyond half-assed attempts that sound wrong and read even worse out loud than in his head and deserve to be burnt to a crisp.

“Sorry to hear that,” he can hear Caitlin’s steps on the floor, the heels tapping idly to match her pace; after a moment more of glaring at the page, he sighs and looks up to find her plucking the knot of her coziest bathrobe, “Maybe I can…provide some inspiration?”

He has about half a second to register her hair looks different – a wild tussle of hazel curls, styled in just the right way to showcase the white streaks coiled throughout – when the belt comes undone, the robe slides off like an old skin, and now she’s standing there, in his office, wearing nothing but a corset, lace underwear, garter belt, and a smile.

“Sweet baby Jesus…” he manages to mutter, eyes zeroed in to every detail – from the way the silk fits to her body to the contrast of scarlet lace against her pale skin, to the way that damn corset looks like it was tailored for every inch of her upper half. Especially a neckline that pays proud tribute to the goods.

“Or maybe you just need to…” she perches at the edge of his desk, one leg draped over the other and hair falling to one side like a porn star, “…bounce some ideas off me?”

The angle provides a clean view down her neckline. Mick has the vague notion that, perhaps, he might be drooling.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he launches himself out of the chair and grabs her by the waist; both legs swing up and lock around his hips in a well-practiced motion right before he pins her flat to the wall, “Gonna kill a man in that get-up.”

“If I haven’t killed you yet, there’s still plenty of hope.” Caitlin purrs, every bit a feline in heat to match the lazy roll of her body against his. Her hands, never the devil’s workshop, drop to his hemline and nearly yank the shirt off in one go. He helps at the finish line, getting it over his head, but then lets her pitch it across the room while his mouth starts working on her neck.

His glasses bump awkwardly under her jaw. She laughs softly and gently eases them off his face, “I like this look on you.” She purrs, dropping the glasses on the file cabinet, “Makes you look scholarly. Refined.” Her grin grows wicked as she presses her mouth to his ear, “Maybe I should invest in a schoolgirl outfit for you.”

“I got enough kinks goin’ on when it comes to you, baby.” Mick mutters, “Don’t need you pullin’ some Britney Spears shit to rev my engine.”

The grin splits her mouth around the bite to his earlobe, “Hit me, baby, one more time.” She croons. Girl can’t carry a note to save her life, but this isn’t a karaoke bar and he’s too worked up to worry if she’s off-key (which, for once, she’s not…by much) or ready to win a Grammy.

Her skin is cool but her mouth is hot, insanely hot, and the contrast against his scars sends blood rushing south of the equator. Caitlin loves his scars, loves each one in ways that confirm he’s not the only one here with wires crossed in the attic, and being pinned to a wall just gives her easy access to the ones covering his top half. The rest can be addressed in round two. Right now, he’s not letting her off this wall.

Her tongue brushes the mass of scar tissue at his right shoulder, soft little kitten licks, and he responds by yanking at her underwear in a few greedy motions. The final move to get the damn thing off and pitched across the room comes straight out of a porn flick, with a cocksure grin on her face to match.

“You rehearse that shit?” Mick growls, shoving one hand between her thighs.

“You better have been taking notes.” She smirks, scraping teeth over his hammering pulse, “I’m not putting those back on for a repeat performance.”

Duly noted. “Fuck…” he mutters, partially for how hot she is on his fingers and mostly for how her hand feels down his pants. He loves her hands. Always has. Long and thin fingers, cool skin, dry to the touch. She’s growing out her nails, just enough to give the right pressure in all the right ways. Most of the time she paints them black or dark blue. Today, she color-coordinated with the outfit and there is just something about seeing red-tipped fingers drag just-so over his cock.

Her mouth catches his on the tail-end of another low curse. She gives the best kisses. The kind of kisses that find a way into black-and-white print on the pages of his books: impossibly hot and hungry and dirty with her tongue coaxing his into her mouth so she can pull it between her lips and _suck_ in a way he feels right between the legs.

“Fucking love you…” he groans, too soft and too sincere to just be dirty talk, as she sinks down on him. This is the part where he just stops thinking completely. It’s too much work and he has her body memorized to perfection.

“Love you too, baby.” Caitlin, _Snowflake_ , mumbles into his neck, “Love you so much.”

She trails off into more of the same: tender whispers mixed with the kind of filthy language no one will ever hear her say outside these four walls. Here, with him, she comes alive and lets him dismantle every wall constructed for the outside world. He wears his face on both sleeves without apology, but she’s the sole resident of an ice palace for the rest of the world.

Fine by him: he’s the one who gets to burn the ice and leave her wet and wanting and so goddamn _real_.

***

They’ve more or less consecrated the whole office by the time his body finally gives out and demands a break. Mick shoves himself into the loveseat, Caitlin flung across his chest, and grabs hold of the blanket draped along the cushions: a faux fur spread in the most obscene shade of orange that he bought (paid _honest money_ for) just because Snowflake called it a ‘visual abomination’ while grinning in the way she does when challenging him to do something for the fun of it. Lisa was horrified when she came over and found the thing on proud display in his office, where God and everyone can get a good look.

“So,” Caitlin traces fingers at random over his chest, “did I help?”

“Think we just wrote a trilogy.” Mick mutters into her hairline. She smells of salt, sex, and coconut bodywash.

“Speaking of which…” her head lifts, just enough to meet his eyes, “Why haven’t you written our story? All you’d have to do is change a few names around and the rest writes itself.”

“Because I’d dedicate two-thirds of it to describing what a sex goddess you are,” he rumbles, one hand sliding down to address the fantastic curve of her ass, “and I don’t want some guy living in his mom’s basement jackin’ off to my girl.”

“Well, that’s not a very good reason.” Caitlin perches her chin at his right side, eyelashes fluttering like a kitten, “I’m giving you permission to let middle-aged housewives swoon at written proof of how good you are in bed.”

“…Good?”

“Good.”

“I’m not ‘good’ anything.” He cups her firmly in one hand, just for the audible hitch in breath, “I’m fucking amazing. I’ve made you scream.”

“And I’ve made you pass out.” She smirks, “You just wrote two, maybe three chapters right there.” Her fingers walk up to his mouth where he catches the tips between his teeth, “You can call it ‘Flame of Her Desire’.”

“Or ‘Melting the Ice Queen’.” He smirks, releasing her fingers with a lazy kiss. She grins and surges up to kiss him fully, slowly working them into the next round.

And if _Flame of Her Desire_ turns into his next bestseller, copies flying off the shelves like canned goods in a natural disaster, her satisfied smirk is a small price to pay.


End file.
